


Glory Hole

by TeratoMarty



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Disguise, M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-25 17:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30092493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeratoMarty/pseuds/TeratoMarty
Summary: How had he come to this?  Once, he was a lover who had blazed a scarlet trail across Europe.  Now, though, he was reduced to seeking the crudest carnal satisfaction possible, in circumstances that were beneath contempt.
Relationships: Spy/Mystery Guest
Kudos: 1





	Glory Hole

Going into town was an ordeal for the BLU Spy, but he could not resist any longer. First, and most painfully, he traded his sleek suit for more shapeless garments that both disguised his slim silhouette and helped him blend in to the American backwater he planned to visit. Next, he hid his close-cropped hair under a wig. It was Spy’s own handiwork, and a minor tonsorial masterpiece: it emulated a thinning head of hair, with longer strands combed from the sides to disguise the bald spot. No-one would suspect this inverse toupee. Finally, the Spy smoothed on makeup to cover the strange tan-lines left by wearing a balaclava in the New Mexico sun. On top of that base, he deepened some shadows, lightened others, subtly changing the apparent shape of his very skull. Even a photograph would not give him away.

When he left his nondescript American car in the parking lot beside a dingy gas station, his very walk was different. His self-assured grace was gone, replaced by a stamping shamble with a trace of hesitation. The latter was not entirely an act. How had he come to this? Once, he was a lover who had blazed a scarlet trail across Europe. Now, though, he was reduced to seeking the crudest carnal satisfaction possible, in circumstances that were beneath contempt. However, if he did not achieve some form of release better than that provided by his own hand, he was certain that he would go insane. He took a deep breath and stepped into the men’s restroom at the rear of the station.

To his amazement, it was relatively clean. It still reeked, but only of industrial disinfectant. He smiled grimly at the thought that the owner had attempted some improvements in the presence of his distinguished clientele. He had never visited for the atmosphere, anyway. He was there for one thing only- and apparently, so was the man in one of the stalls, already on his knees.

The Spy let himself into the adjacent stall. Someone had cut a hole in the plywood partition, and thoughtfully padded the rough edges with duct tape. Out of habit, the Spy observed what he could about the other man. There wasn’t much to go on- the knees were clad in rough twill, like any man in this town might have worn, not shabby, but not brand-new either. The mouth on the other side of the hole was quirked into a nervous smile, thin lips set in clean-shaven jaws. No teeth showing- the man could have been hiding bad dentistry, too shy to smile broadly, or just trying not to scare off a potential partner with the threat of teeth. No way to say.

For the purposes of this evening’s adventure, it did not matter. The Spy latched the flimsy door behind him and unzipped his fly. Such a cold and sordid way to achieve a scrap of pleasure, he reflected as he pushed his cock through the hole. But the mouth on the other side was warm and wet and soft as velvet, and all the Spy could dare in an unsympathetic American town, miles from anywhere. He leaned against the partition and envisioned the shy smile on the other side breaking into a crooked grin, perhaps with crooked teeth to match. Ah, yes, he murmured to himself, in an accent that was no more French than his actual accent.

The man servicing him had little finesse, but a ravenous enthusiasm. The Spy swallowed a moan. So much better than another night alone. Normally, he prided himself on being self-contained as his pocket watch, but he could not survive without the touch of another man. Tender, naïve, desperate- his caress was a code that the Spy solved easily. He was inexperienced but not a virgin, had imagined fellatio a thousand times for every chance he’d had to perform it, trapped by this small town and its provincial attitudes. The Spy imagined whisking his temporary lover away from this squalid room, this town, this continent, teaching him the art of love on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean.

“I’m close,” he whispered urgently. “Slow-” he needed this to last, to sustain him through the lonely desert nights.

The man on the other side of the partition mistook his plea, and pulled the Spy’s cock deep into his mouth, working his tongue around it. Gritting his teeth, the Spy resisted the urge to thrust deeper still. The stranger swallowed every drop of his release with a breathless moan. The plywood partition sagged as the Spy leaned against it, panting. He needed more. He slid down to his knees.

The other man did not offer the flourish of letting the Spy taste his own seed in a kiss, but got to his feet and unzipped his fly. The Spy’s pang of regret was tempered by a fresh rush of lust as he the stranger pushed his erection through the hole. It was everything the Spy might have hoped- long, slender, with a strong upward curve. The head was broad and dark, ready to fit perfectly into the saboteur’s throat. His mouth watered, until he looked down.

He knew that he should run. Find some excuse, object to the other man’s (delicious) scent, make a noise of disgust at being expected to service the man who had serviced him, flee without a word. He should already be out the door, not sliding to his knees.

The other man’s boots straddled his thighs. They were a British design, some ten years out of date, handmade somewhere in Southeast Asia, water buffalo leather. There was probably only one pair of boots like that on the continent, certainly only one pair in this wretched little town- and they belonged to the RED Sniper.

The Spy’s heart hammered as he let a hot breath wash over the other man’s erection. He must be insane. As a fantasy, his nemesis was compelling, his dangerous nature part of his appeal. As a reality, he was an implacable professional, incapable of resting until either one or the other of them was dead. He would kill the Spy if he saw him, leaving a mess and breaking the confidentiality of their employers’ private war. Given that and the Administrator’s stance on fraternisation, a nasty breach of contract was only a centimetre of plywood away.

“Get on with it.” The Sniper had made some attempt to disguise his accent, but his voice was still gravel and velvet. Bowing his head, the Spy pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the head of the Australian’s cock. He let his tongue lie flat against the underside before taking a slow, sensuous lick. On the other side of the partition, the Sniper moaned under his breath.

The Spy knew that he would do anything to hear more of that. He opened his mouth wider, took the Sniper’s cock inside. It was considered gauche to make too much noise in these situations, but he couldn’t keep himself from slurping around the Sniper’s cock. He scrabbled at the partition, trying to get leverage, wishing that the Sniper could wrap those long hands around his head, twist his fingers in his hair. He panted, pressing his lips to the hole and gripping the underside of the partition to let the Sniper fuck his mouth. The salty ooze of the other man’s arousal coated the Spy’s tongue.

“Turn ‘round,” the Australian growled. 

He could still refuse, the Spy knew, still pretend that the Sniper had outraged his masculinity, but… might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. He unbuckled his belt, slid his pants to his knees, and tried not to picture the humiliating tableau he made as he braced himself against the toilet paper dispenser. 

The Sniper spat thickly on his cock, then thrust it through the partition again. The Spy took it, not slowly enough, and gritted his teeth against the pain. Even this, though, he had missed- sacrificing his ghostlike untouchability for the unpredictable ache and bliss of contact. The Sniper’s fingers curled over the top of the partition, gaining purchase for him to start thrusting. Breathing through his nose, the Spy forced himself to relax, to conform to the Australian’s pleasure. He almost cried out as the other assassin struck deep inside him.

The Spy steadied himself against the cistern and covered his mouth with one hand, angling his body just so for his enemy lover. The sensation was perfect, unreal and overwhelming. A tiny portion of his brain wondered whether the Sniper truly was so amazing, or whether this was the desperate result of long deprivation, but the rest of him did not care. He wanted the Sniper to grab his hips, flip him over onto his back, push his knees up to his chest, anything to get deeper, get more. He regretted that he had already spent himself- the pleasure he felt even now promised ecstasy if he could manage another orgasm.

“Hold still.” As a free agent, the Spy respected only as much authority as he was paid to; there was no reason that the Australian’s tone of command should make him weak in the knees. Locking his legs, the Spy did as he was told. The Sniper snapped his hips, popping the head of his cock into and out of the Spy’s body. Feeling something cold on his leg, the saboteur looked down and realised that his cock was leaking pre-cum again, limp though it was. He pressed back harder against the partition.

“Like that, do you?” the Sniper rasped, his own accent breaking through. The Spy bit back a moan. “Thought so.” The marksman increased his pace until the stalls were rattling with the force of his thrusts. The Spy panted and tried to angle his body to best accept this brutal penetration.

A ragged moan from the other side of the plywood announced the Sniper’s orgasm. The Spy could feel the other man’s cock pulsing inside him, swelling as the semen poured into him. It was more than he could endure- even though he had already come, even though he was still limp, he felt waves of pleasure surge through him. He cried out, the sharp sound echoing off the tile walls.

“Spy!” The Australian’s accent rang out loud and clear. Head swimming, the saboteur wondered whether the RED Pyro was positioned outside the bathroom door. He hauled his pants up and made a run for it, trying to fasten his fly as he burst out of the stall.

“Stop!” The Sniper’s long legs gave him an advantage in the close quarters, and he stepped between the Spy and the door. Belt still undone, the Spy drew his balisong and pointed it at his lover of a moment before. “Stop,” the Sniper repeated, hands up.

The Spy brought back his French accent. “Step away from the door, I will leave, you will wait sixty seconds, leave yourself, and this will never have happened.”

“I’d know your voice anywhere.” The bushman’s voice was rougher than usual. “You sound just like that when I kill you.” Eyes wild, he ignored the knife and took a step forward.

Shit, shit, merde, scheiss, merda, sranje- the Spy knew he was going to die in this disgusting bathroom. He’d pegged the Sniper as a sadist long ago; up until a split second ago, it had been part of his appeal. The Spy slid one foot backward- if he was going to respawn in disgrace, the Sniper would, too.

“What- get the Hell out of this bathroom!” The door burst open, framing the gas station’s angry owner. “Settle up somewhere else, faggots!” 

“I’m not gonna hurt you!” The Sniper yelped.

“I make a point of not giving a shit who does what to who, here, but kill each other out in the desert like normal people.” The mechanic pointed the way out the door, and the Sniper went, deliberately turning his back on the Spy’s knife. 

“My apologies,” the Spy said in his American accent. He closed his knife and followed the Sniper, who had headed for the scrub that set the gas station apart from the badlands.

The Sniper stopped about fifty metres from the gas station, among some stunted trees that more or less screened him from view. The Spy stepped into this meagre cover, and stayed still, slightly more than arm’s length away.

“If I figured out it was you, you must’ve known it was me long since. Why not just hack off my tackle while you had the chance?” the Sniper asked, back still to the Spy.

“I… did not want to. I only pulled the knife because I presumed that you would kill me.”

“Ought to,” the Sniper nodded, “but I don’t want to, either.” He turned to face the Spy, showing his crooked grin. “Much as I like the noises you make when I kill you.”

The Spy felt a smile growing involuntarily. “I believe you know another way to elicit such sounds.”


End file.
